


Must See TV

by volunteerfd



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Television, Television Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 19:35:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: In a demon-angel friendship, interests often didn't overlap. That wasn't usually an issue for Crowley or Aziraphale, except television meant an awful lot to Crowley...because he secretly moonlighted as a television exec. And it would mean a lot to him if Aziraphale liked one bloody show.In which Aziraphale prefers books and bread to television, Crowley gets touchy about the finale of M*A*S*H, and Aziraphale likes exactly two shows.





	Must See TV

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know there are English sitcoms that are more suited to Aziraphale's tastes, but since I grew up with American sitcoms, for the purposes of this fic I am pretending that they are the only ones that exist.

A surprising theological fact is that angels helped to invent television. Television is generally not regarded as a force for good, nor are angels technologically savvy, but one angel, Nahael, was technologically open-minded, prone to spurts of imagination, and so single-mindedly dedicated to intellectual pursuits that he made Aziraphale look like an American football player. When he heard about electricity, he thought, why not make little household boxes to quickly disseminate information? 

The educational possibilities were infinite. Humans had a habit of locking knowledge atop the tallest and ivoriest of towers, which was antithetical to progress. He hoped that they would learn not to do that, and with these household boxes making information more accessible than ever before, it would be absolutely ridiculous if they continued to do so. 

Despite his intelligence, Nahael needed human help with the logistics. Science was the special domain of humans; angelic programming precluded its understanding. After a few meetings with different inventors, plans were sketched out and development was underway.

Nahael assumed that demons would ignore a Patently Good invention, and that its purpose was obvious enough that not even humans could mess it up. Very clearly an educational tool. Utterly incorruptible. 

In retrospect, it would be easy to call Nahael so naive that he made Aziraphale look like a hard-bitten Mafia don--but only in retrospect. Most demons wanted nothing to do with television at first. It was small and new and staticky and boring_ . _Most angels didn’t, either, because it was small and new and staticky and interesting. They patted Nahael and congratulated him on a job well done, then hoped to leave humans to their own devices and never hear about television again. Even Nahael wiped his hands of the venture once it was completed. His job was done. Now it was in the hands of humans.

Neither side expected it to last. Humans already had a dizzying array of entertainment--more books than a person could read in a lifetime; the endless expanse of nature; music and all its accompaniments; the excitement of live theater; and, most recently, the splendor of movies. How could they live with that and not get crushed under the weight of choice? How could they live with that and want more? 

Nahael did not count on one particular demon being so interested in entertainment that he, the demon, excitedly brought it up in conversation over dinner with a friend.

“How do they get the people in the little boxes? I heard it’s something to do with satellites and electricity.” 

“It’s probably a hoax,” Aziraphale said. “Movies in every household. The world would grind to a halt. And the rooms would have to be quite dark, wouldn’t they? Can’t be good for the eyes.” Aziraphale would have liked to move onto more interesting topics of conversation. The bread on the table, for instance, was more interesting: warm and crusty and served with a pat of fresh, salted butter. Good brandy, too. But Crowley would not be deterred.

“What if it’s real? You’re not the least bit interested in the--the possibilities?” He couldn’t quite shape the possibilities in his mind yet. Maybe Aziraphale was right and the invention would fizzle. But Crowley couldn’t shake the thought that this was going to be something, something big, and he buzzed with anticipation.

“Why would anyone stare at a tiny black-and-white box when they could read a book or see a play? I certainly wouldn’t. And those poor people getting shrunk down with electricity. It’s inhumane, is what it is.”

At that moment, Crowley knew he had something. If Aziraphale abhorred it on principle, it was bound to be a smash hit.

He immediately appointed himself President of Television and Executive Director of Network Programming (Demonic Liaison). A few other like-minded and ambitious demons followed in his footsteps, but none shared Crowley’s knack for human entertainment. Crowley was a veritable wunderkind.

See, even though television was an angelic suggestion, television _ shows _were purely demonic.

* * *

  
(Of course, angels tried their hand at programming once they realized the box itself was not enough. They were not very good at it and could not catch up. Their only long-standing success was PBS.)

* * *

One of Crowley and Aziraphale’s sub-agreements was not to talk about their respective work unless necessary for their main Agreement, lest one be tempted to sabotage the other. Sabotage would more likely be a demonic response, but the angel would grow morally troubled and fuss--to sabotage or not to sabotage, that is the question. 

So Aziraphale knew nothing of Crowley’s television career, which Crowley kept well-hidden because Aziraphale would be powerless to intervene and therefore even more troubled. Instead, Crowley took on the persona of a devoted fan, an interested spectator. For example, instead of coming right out and saying, “I had a bloody brilliant idea. Half-hour situation-based comedies.” he said, “I heard they’re thinking of a new type of television program. Called a sitcom. Short for situation comedy. Characters getting into all sorts of antics, utter mind-rotting fun.”

“Why don’t they just call it a comedy?”

“Because the humour is borne out of a situation.”

“Isn’t all humour borne out of a situation?”

“What? Er, no.” Crowley opened his mouth to give an example, closed it, repeated the process several more times until he finally came up with one. “Puns.” 

“Puns are situational, the situation being linguistics and whatever scenario is set up by the wordplay.”

“Th—bu—wh—The point,” Crowley stammered, then reined himself in, “the point is that it’s going to be the new big thing in television, I guarantee--er, expect. So one could--hypothetically speaking--get all the uproarious humor of, say, _ Much Ado About Nothing _ from the comfort of their own home, in different bite-sized morsels every week.”

Aziraphale crinkled his nose. The whole point of comedies was that they were long, that you watched the same ones over and over again, and that they had the same pay-off every time. 

Crowley, on the other hand, was pleased by Aziraphale’s resistance--another good sign that his idea was destined to become popular. 

Sitcoms did not get off to a rousing start, at least by Crowley’s standards. They had to adhere to rigid “standards and practices.” Crowley had never been a fan of standards—or of practice, for that matter. The only way around it was to poke cheeky fun at the limitations. They wanted wholesome? He’d give them wholesome. He’d give them such wholesomeness that they’d shield their eyes from the hokey, blinding-white purity.

That was a mistake.

At that time, not a lot of people had a finely-honed post-modern disdain for earnestness. They genuinely enjoyed, even hoped to emulate, _ Leave It To Beaver. _They wished their lives had no problems greater than a boy riding his bike five minutes past curfew or telling a little lie about breaking a vase.

The problem with these early sitcoms was they were boring. Dreadfully boring. Even Crowley was bored by them. What was the point of orchestrating television shows if he couldn’t enjoy them?

They got edgier. They talked about Issues. They upset people. It didn’t take long before boundaries got pushed, lines got redrawn, standards got redefined or even erased. At this rate, Crowley was excited to see how it would mutate given ten years, given twenty...given fifty.

* * *

Crowley answered his phone immediately. He did not want it ringing tonight. Tonight was important.

On the other end of the phone, Azirapale greeted him and said, “There’s a new restaurant I wanted to try. Would you care to join me?” .

Crowley rarely had plans, and if he did, they were moveable for Aziraphale’s fancies, and if Crowley wanted to stay home and watch TV, he’d lie and say he “had plans,” no more specific than that. Tonight was special, and he felt compelled to divulge in full honesty. 

“Er, M*A*S*H is on. The series finale.”

“M*A*S*H? What’s that?”

They had this conversation a million times before. M*A*S*H was a very popular program. It wasn’t one of Crowley’s, but he wished it was, because it was an absolutely brilliant show. If you wanted to avoid knowing what M*A*S*H was, you had to try very hard. Crowley felt a flash of irritation that Aziraphale either put all this effort into resisting or blithely walked through life evading anvils of popular culture, Mr. Magoo-style (whom he also probably didn’t know).

“It’s a sitcom about doctors in the Korean War. It’s been on for eleven years, and it’s ending tonight.”

“The Korean War went on for three.”

“It’s nominally about the Korean War but really it’s about all wars.”

“And it’s a sitcom, you said?” Aziraphale sounded skeptical that war and popular comedy could mix, and Crowley detected a hint of judgment that, of course, a creature of hell would find widescale destruction funny.

“Moreso in the early years but yes. You’ve seen a few episodes. You liked the chaplain.” Crowley found the chaplain cloying and twee. Crowley liked Hawkeye when Hawkeye wasn’t also being cloying and twee. He had strong opinions: Trapper in favor of BJ; if it had to be a BJ episode, then clean-shaven years in favor of mustached; earlier seasons in favor of new, always, except in the case of Radar, whom he was glad to see gone. 

“Oh.” 

“I expect it’ll be a cultural milestone. People will be talking about it.” 

“I suppose they will.” Aziraphale failed to embrace new forms of “cultural milestones,” but nevertheless hated missing out on them. 

“You can come over and watch, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. I wouldn’t understand what’s going on.” 

“It’s war. Not much to understand.”

Aziraphale came over with a bottle of red wine. He didn’t know what wine paired with the show. A shame there was no way to watch a few episodes beforehand and no primer on the characters. Crowley told Aziraphale that they'd watched a few episodes before and Aziraphale wracked his brain trying to remember, but he turned up nothing. And what kind of a name for a war show was Mash? Mash what, exactly? He hoped it wasn’t mashed bodies. 

The finale of Mash, it turned out, was not a red wine occasion—it was a gin occasion, Crowley informed Aziraphale. Cheap, putrid stuff, like paint thinner and bug spray. Crowley seemed oddly proud of it. Crowley stored the wine away for a more suitable night. Aziraphale sniffed his glass of gin and politely lowered it away from his face when Crowley wasn’t looking.

They were both settled on the couch in time for the opening credits, and the title card clicked it into place. It wasn’t Mash, it was M*A*S*H--mobile army something or another.

“Oh, yes, I remember the one where the priest was asked to perform a bris.”

“Shh.”

Aziraphale had been under the impression that television was easy entertainment. The point was it required no thought, no effort—press a button and vegetate in front of a screen for hours on end. He did not anticipate rituals, let alone an almost religious adherence by a demon.

Aziraphale had questions, like if he needed to know anything from the previous episodes, and if the adorable farm boy with the funny name was still there, but Crowley was intent on the screen. Not that Aziraphale needed guidance; it was a popular program, after all, and he’d be able to figure out whatever it had to throw at him, so he let his mind drift. Almost an hour in, he wanted to clarify, weren’t these comedy programs supposed to be half an hour? But, then, for a comedy it seemed quite dramatic. The lead actor was sobbing and--

“My word! The chicken was actually a _ baby? _” Aziraphale asked. “Can you go back? No, don’t go back. Can you pause it, or--”

Crowley leaned forward, his fist in front of his mouth. 

“Commercial,” Crowley murmured. 

“Are you alright? I know that children can be a bit of a touchy issue for you.”

“I’m not touchy,” Crowley sniffed.

“Well, it’s over, isn’t it? It went quite a bit long—they’re usually only a half hour usually, right?”

“This is two hours.”

“_Two?!” _

“It’s been on for eleven years! Do you know what eleven years is to humans? It’s a lifetime. OK, not a whole lifetime but a bloody long time. It deserves a good send off. If you don’t want to finish watching it, you can go.”

“No, no, I do. I’m glad it didn’t end on that note.”

“And I’m not touchy.”

The show ended on a bittersweet note instead of a downright grim one. Aziraphale actually grew to like it. The relationships between the characters, particularly Hawkeye and BJ, were touching, and he was moved by the ending. Perhaps, if he’d been following the show as a dedicated fan, he might have even teared up. Once the end credits were over and it was safe to talk, he smiled at Crowley and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me..” 

Crowley swiped at his eyes. “Don’t get all sappy, it’s just a show.” 

* * *

There were scores of programs, thousands of hours for every possible taste, and still, Aziraphale chose to read a book or see another bloody Pinter play.

Aziraphale was a white whale of a demographic, a demographic of one, no less important due to its size--in fact, coveted for its exclusivity.

For reasons of demography and only of demography, and of professional dedication and love of a challenge--for those reasons and nothing else--Crowley began market research. Normally, he would never engage in something as crass as market research. He knew instinctively what people liked and what people hated and he suggested a good number of shows for both categories. But this would require work. He even bought an artsy little Moleskine and a pretentious Montblanc pen in the hopes that they would help him understand what it was like to be prim and fussy.

Turned out he quite liked having a pen and notebook. He’d stand outside buildings and scribble discreet little ticks. People gave him odd looks before scurrying away, self-conscious over whatever the stranger was scribbling. 

In most cases, he _ was _literally scribbling, but in other cases, he was writing ideas:

Wholesome, but with an edge.

Does not shy away from tough issues. But family friendly.

Bea Arthur.

Eventually, he had it. The perfect idea to entrap Aziraphale--a program they both could delight in. He rubbed his hands together and chuckled malevolently.

“Sit, sit,” Crowley said. He shoved a footstool under Aziraphale’s feet. “Wine.” He placed a glass of wine in the hand of his confused companion.

“What is all this?” Aziraphale sniffed the wine cautiously. He trusted Crowley, of course, but Crowley was acting rather unusually.

“We,” Crowley announced, “are about to witness the pinnacle of television achievement--no, no,” he said, anticipating Aziraphale’s protest, “not just television achievement. It’s an achievement of friendship and humor and--you’ll like it.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and gentle. He wanted to tell Crowley that, despite their differences, he hoped Crowley knew he could confide in him and that sublimating his problems into escapist entertainment would solve nothing.

Before Aziraphale could say this, though, Crowley exclaimed, “Oh, the cheesecake!”, hurried to the kitchen to grab the dessert plate and set it down on the coffee table. Aziraphale eyed the cake with the same suspicion as he sniffed the wine, but it did look scrumptious...

No. First, he had to find out what was wrong. 

“Crowley, what is going on?”

“_T__he Golden Girls _! They’re old ladies with a zest for life spending their sunset years together, supporting each other, bantering, having a good time. You’ll love them. It comes on in...now.”

Of course Aziraphale would at least _ pretend _to enjoy the show. How could he not, with Crowley in front of him, unable to hide his desperate need for Aziraphale’s approval? 

And if Aziraphale had any hesitation that he would at least feign enjoyment, it was dashed when he heard the theme song: _ Thank you for being a friend/Traveled down the road and back again/Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidant. _

Aziraphale felt something he’d experienced before, many many times, but never so potently: embarrassment and pity for Crowley. For whatever emotional, psychological, maybe even spiritual (or lack thereof) crisis Crowley was currently suffering, this show meant a lot to him.

Fortunately for Aziraphale, no deception on his part was required: _ The Golden Girls _was fantastic.

* * *

  
Crowley’s other attempts to lure Aziraphale were not successful. Then again, the shows were not specifically created for Aziraphale like _ The Golden Girls _ had been, and some of them were not even by Crowley. _ Married....with Children _ was dismissed as “loutish.” Aziraphale ran out of the room when _ ALF _ was on--said the “puppet monster” was “terrifying.” He’d try to sit through episodes of _ The Facts of Life _, but he wouldn’t really enjoy them, and he’d turn to bookkeeping and any other frivolous busy work instead.

The worst was_ Cheers _, which Crowley was rather fond of, but Aziraphale considered depressing. “They’re all alcoholics,” Aziraphale said sadly. “Don’t they have families?”

“Yes, but they hate their families. It’s why they’re alcoholics,” Crowley explained, as if that made it better. Crowley sighed, defeated. “I can turn it off if you’d like.”

“No,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Is there...is there any way to watch a show, but just the scenes with a particular character?” 

“No. ...Which one,” Crowley said, although he had a sickening feeling he knew the answer.

“I believe his name is Frasier...Is that his first name or his last name? He’s very funny.”

Not one single producer asked Crowley if he was sure, because Mr. Crowley's reputation spoke for itself and questioning the famous Mr. Crowley was akin to question God, only far more egregious and with worse consequences (Crowley would see to that). 

So when he pitched the spin-off, the producers swallowed their reservations, did not ask if he'd gone insane, and got to work.

For this one, Crowley was going to be cool about it. He’d invite Aziraphale over and leave the television on in the background, and he’d busy himself with...er...dusting, plant misting, something. He’d show no investment in the show whatsoever. Part of him hoped Aziraphale would loathe it and Crowley could scrap the whole thing before Season 2.

“Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be with you in a minute,” Crowley called from his unused kitchen. Aziraphale hovered awkwardly in the living and, with nothing to do, eyed the television screen.

“Is that the fellow from _ Cheers _?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes,” Crowley said casually. “It’s a spin-off.”

“Who is the smaller fellow?”

“That’s his brother, Niles.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “Are they brothers in real life?”

“No, not related at all.” 

“The resemblance is uncanny.” Aziraphale sounded impressed. 

“Yes, yes! Isn’t it?”

“What a cute little dog! A Jack Russell?”

“Yes! His name is Eddie!” It was working!

“Was that a reference to the Gershwins?” 

As if invisible hands gently pushed his shoulders down, Aziraphale sat on the couch, fixed on the screen. Crowley watched him watch. 

“They’re so erudite! I always got the impression that television writers dumbed things down for the lowest common denominator, lest they lose a single precious viewer.” 

Crowley’s smile faltered. The writers had politely ushered him out of the writers’ room as soon as the ink on the contract was dry.

“Do you like this show?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley wanted to exclaime _ No! I find it pompous as all Heaven! _ but instead exclaimed “It’s fine! Do _ you _like it?”

“The one who isn’t Frasier is especially charming.” 

On screen, Frasier said something about opera and Aziraphale laughed out loud.

_ Frasier _ ran for eleven miraculous years and Aziraphale watched every episode.

* * *

Crowley would be lying if he said his television career wasn’t one of his proudest achievements. And, since he was a demon, he had no problem lying.

It was frustrating that Aziraphale never took to it. Television was _good. _Not all of it, obviously--Crowley made sure that most of it was rubbish--but enough of it was, and who was Aziraphale to think he was above it all, with two exceptions, made painstakingly _f__or _him? Especially now, with over 100 channels, some of them subscriber-based for the hoitiest of the toities, and propagating exponentially. In another 10 years, Crowley expected hundreds more channels, thousands more shows, and here was the fussiest being in the galaxy, too good for any of them.

“Television’s getting more cerebral,” Crowley told Aziraphale one day. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “‘Cerebral.’ What does that even mean? Is _ Frasier _coming back on?”

“No, listen. Have you ever heard of_ The Sopranos?” _

“I know of many sopranos.” 

“No, erg, what about _ The Wire _?” 

“Which wire,” Aziraphale said boredly.

“It’s a show. It’s about drug dealers and policemen in Baltimore. Each season deals with a different institution like the police force, schools, the seaport—”

“The seaport?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Sounds boring.”

“The seaport season is better on rewatch,” Crowley defended with an air of impatience.

Aziraphale frowned. He loved books and Crowley didn’t, or at least would never admit to liking them. But differences in taste were part and parcel with their opposing natures, and he never took offense when Crowley decried books or purloined one off Aziraphale’s shelves to secretly read and never discuss. And though Crowley teased Aziraphale about his distaste for fast cars and excitement, he never regarded it as a personal affront. But television seemed to be special, almost sacrosanct.

“You enjoy this whole television thing, don’t you.”

“I’d like to believe if I weren’t already a demon, I’d be a television producer. But as it is, that seems redundant.”

“No, I mean, it means a lot to you…” Aziraphale said.

Crowley had kept his involvement in television secret at first because he was using it for demonic activity, but it had now exploded beyond that. He used it just as much for a creative outlet as for temptation.

“Well, OK, the thing is…” Crowley said, and he came clean.

* * *

There was something to be said about a clear conscience. After his confession, Crowley no longer felt the need to pander to Aziraphale. He could even tell Aziraphale about his projects with no ulterior motive. Perhaps it was the stress of lying that caused Crowley the most anxiety, rather than his frustration that Aziraphale didn't share his interests...

No, that wasn't it.

“I had a meeting with Dan Harmon!”

“I don’t know who that is.” 

“Er, he’s some bloke, I helped him sign his second TV show. The first one was a bit turbulent, but the payoff will be huge for this one.” 

Crowley’s favorite genre was Viewers Who Miss The Point And Idolize A Brilliant Bad TV Man. It encouraged people to be insufferable, believing that they were Brilliant and therefore deserved--nay, were obligated--to be rude. As an added bonus, the creators often didn’t intend to endorse these Brilliant Bad Men. The Brilliant Bad Men were supposed to be deconstructions or some such literary blather, and the writers got frustrated that the audience was Missing Their Point. Sometimes they lashed out at their fanbase.

_ Rick and Morty _was destined to be Crowley’s greatest achievement.

“Very good, dear. I’m excited to watch it.”

“NO!” Crowley exclaimed. “I mean, you wouldn’t like it.”

Aziraphale did not point out that he still disliked most programs, and also that he never truly watched TV. He just sat on the couch, reading, while Crowley did. It was a good arrangement.

"Well, hmm, perhaps we can catch up on M*A*S*H? I hear they repeat episodes of things now." 

Crowley did not mind that Aziraphale was 40 years behind, because that was still more current than his clothing. 

"Yes, I'm sure we can find one," Crowley said, turning on the TV. Thank Satan for syndication; he didn't have to waste a miracle summoning an episode. And one day, fifty years from now, he'd be able to ease Aziraphale into Netflix and the like. 


End file.
